"But surely you are dealing unfairly now by the talents of that poor but willing creature Mallison."
A passion of indignation exploded in that snort, such as Morphew had never before betrayed capacity for feeling; and seeming to choke on a rush of words, he was temporarily unable to resume; while Lanyard, forbearing to question or comment, continued in a wide stare of a sudden grown genuine. Unmistakably his mention of Mallison had touched a spot so sore that the iron rule of stolidity had been unseated. But for an instant only; quick to pull himself together, Morphew resumed his level drone of habit.
"Get that idea out of your head--if it's in it. Mally's a crooked little damn' fool if there ever was one, but he never in his best days had the guts to tackle big business."
"But, if memory serves, you were of another mind when we met at Mrs. McFee's--"
"It was your word against mine; and what chance did I have of proving you had everything all wrong, with the little McFee daft about you, ready to believe black was white if you told her so?"
"It isn't fair to confuse me with compliments. Pardon a slight digression: I am interested to know what became of Mallison."
"I don't know," Morphew admitted, louring. "But I will before long . . ."
He gave a minute to savage brooding. "If that boy had only had sense enough to trust me . . . But he got panicky for fear we'd fall down trying to alibi him, and blew without so much as good night."
"Fat chance. He knows enough to steer clear of me after jumping the bail I put up for him."
"Still, one is hardly convinced that Mallison is the simple innocent you make him out to be."
"I suppose"--Morphew's manner was irritating by intention--"what you want me to believe is you don't remember owning up you done that job yourself."
"Ah!" Light from yet another angle promised now to illuminate the darker recesses of Liane's duplicity. "You have been talking with Mademoiselle Delorme--"
"I'm telling you the three of us talked all that business over, I and you and Liane, half a dozen times if once, last Winter. You didn't make any bones then about admitting you'd turned that trick at Folly's while you were lit. What good do you think it's going to do you to stall about it now, try to feed the bull to me, the way you did to Liane on board that boat? Maybe she swallowed your yarn because she wanted to; but I'm no crazy woman, I'm not so dead struck on you I'll let you get away with telling me to my face you don't remember anything that went on in this Town before you went South. I'm wise, I know what you've got in mind; and that tale won't go down a little bit with yours truly."